The End of Despair
by Flora1211
Summary: "I won’t be coming back. There is a liberation in that thought, not hope exactly. There is no hope left for me, not anymore. More like a shadow of hope . . . or at least the end of despair."
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: The End of Despair  
  
AUTHOR: Flora  
  
EMAIL: stt121us@yahoo.com, florastuart@yahoo.com  
  
DATE: March 17, 2002  
  
ARCHIVE: Will be archived at FanFiction.net, Stargatefan.com, Heliopolis, anyone else just ask  
  
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene  
  
SPOILERS: major for Stargate the Movie, minor for A Matter of Time, Solitudes  
  
RATING: R for language, canon death of minor character  
  
SUMMARY: At the beginning of the movie, Jack is offered a way to end his life with honor. What happens when he changes his mind?  
  
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters,  
  
situations, and story are the property of the author. Not to be archived without permission of the author.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, I love Jack angst. This is my first Stargate fic! Any feedback and constructive criticism is appreciated…let me know what to do to  
  
improve. Thanks so much to Frances and Crystal for betaing this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I leave the gun tucked under the mattress.  
  
Not like there's anyone left in our house who can be hurt by it.  
  
I don't know what Sara will think, whether she'll even notice. To be honest, I don't expect her to stay long after I leave anyway.  
  
I don't say anything, don't even stop to change, don't even say goodbye. Walk out of Charlie's room, grab my old dress uniform out of my closet, my car keys, and go downstairs.  
  
She is standing by the sink, holding a cigarette in one hand, still staring at the road. She doesn't even turn when I come down the stairs. By this time she's given up. Can't say I blame her. She knows where I'm going, and she knows I'm not coming back.  
  
My arm brushes hers as I pick up a pack of cigarettes from the counter, and that old lighter with the Air Force symbol on it. A present from a friend—former friend—but even if I never talk to the bastard anymore, it's the only lighter I've got. I quit smoking after I came back from Iraq, and didn't start again until after—the accident.  
  
She almost turns, I see it out of the corner of my eye. I turn away, half- expecting her to call me back in spite of everything. But she doesn't, and I'm glad. It's easier this way. Right now I don't know what I might say.  
  
The door to the Jeep makes a satisfying slam. I haven't been driving in days. Haven't been out of that room in days. God, my legs are cramped now. I toss the envelope with my orders onto the front seat, start the engine. Damn but it's good to be driving again. For the first time in a week I feel almost alive again. I am going somewhere, finally, away from that tiny room full of memories, and the dead weight of silence downstairs.  
  
And I won't be coming back.  
  
  
  
There is a liberation in that thought, not hope exactly. There is no hope left for me, not anymore. More like a shadow of hope . . . or at least the end of despair  
  
I've had a lot of practice hiding pain, getting over pain, shoving anguish so deep down inside it won't ever see the light of day again. Not that it doesn't come out again screaming as soon as night comes, as soon as I let myself fall asleep. But this is different. This isn't something I can deal with, something I can shield against. I'm a soldier, trained to kill first and ask questions later, trained to look at blood and not care, not care who is dead or how they died or why, as long as I carried out my orders.  
  
You have to isolate that part of you that cares, that part of you that remains human. Isolate it, shut it off, but above all protect it somehow, in spite of everything. Charlie was everything I had, everything I was that wasn't stained with blood and war and death. Charlie was innocent, and he was all that remained of my innocence, if I ever had any. He was everything about me that deserved a chance to live.  
  
Charlie was my soul.  
  
My son is dead. God help me, he's dead, and I killed him.  
  
The sound of that gunshot, and Sara's scream, will echo in my ears until the day I die.  
  
I don't know how we got home from the hospital. I barely remember the funeral, all those people, faces of sympathy and barely suppressed horror. An accident, that's what they said. But deep down no one believes it any more than I do. The gun was loaded. It was in the house. Charlie was in the house. I wasn't watching him. I left it where he could find it.  
  
What the hell did I think would happen when he found it?  
  
The next thing I remember, after my son lying on that gurney like a broken doll soaked in blood, is stumbling back upstairs to that room and finding the gun on the bed. His blood was still there, a round, ragged stain on the carpet. But the first thing I felt when I saw the gun was not horror, or remorse, but rather relief. An overpowering sense of relief that crashed onto my shoulders with a force that drained all strength from me, so my legs would no longer support me and I had to sit down.  
  
There was still one bullet in the chamber.  
  
I heard Sara's footsteps following me up the stairs, and I know she saw me pick it up, but she didn't say anything. Not one word. And that, more than anything, told me I'd truly destroyed everything that ever made me less than a monster, a hollow, wind-up tin soldier that could kill without recrimination or regret. Who could kill his own son. Whose wife would not shed a tear as he blew his own brains out.  
  
It was a long time before she walked away, back down the stairs. I stared around the room, at the pictures, the baseball glove, the paper airplanes hanging from the ceiling. The black metal was cold against my hands, so different from two days ago, when it was still hot after it fired.  
  
I'm gonna be just like you when I grow up, Dad. Someday I'll join the Air Force, I'll learn to fly, just like you.  
  
I could see the headlines now. Special Forces colonel, who survived jumping out of airplanes with and without a parachute, dozens of secret missions behind enemy lines, four months of starvation and torture in the Middle East, shoots himself in his own house, in his son's bedroom.  
  
I don't know what kept me from firing that gun. I think I would have, eventually, if the Air Force hadn't come to give me a way out. The next day Sara came back, crying, pleading. Asking me not to leave her, to help her, to let her help me. To let us share our grief, and comfort each other, and talk to each other, because I was all she had left and she was all I had left. In short, not to fail as a husband as I'd failed as a father. To let us find a way to go on with our lives.  
  
I might have answered her. If I'd just turned to look at her, instead of staring fixedly at the gun in my hands, if I'd put it down and wrapped my arms around her, let her cry against my shoulder . . . the smallest gesture, reaching out to touch her, and we might have been saved. She'd said the same things after Iraq, and I'd turned her out then as I did now. It was easier not to let her in, as if by putting the pain into words I'd somehow make it too real, too near.  
  
Eventually she stopped trying.  
  
And so I stayed there, not sleeping, not eating, not speaking to anyone. I had nothing. I was nothing. It was as if my heart had been torn living from my chest, and whatever consciousness still flickered in my mind would fade and disappear inevitably into darkness, like the flatline on the hospital monitor that told me my son was gone.  
  
And then, like a fuzzy gray light in a starless night, the knock on the door and an officer's voice, uncertain.  
  
"Colonel O'Neill? We're here to inform you . . . you've been . . . reactivated."  
  
  
  
It feels almost like the first time I've driven the Jeep. Backing out of the driveway too fast, spinning the wheel around and peeling into the road. It's early fall but I leave the top open, oddly comforted by the wind rushing through my hair. I squint ahead and hit the accelerator, watching the red needle on the dash creep slowly around. Speed limit? What's that? Steering one-handed around a quiet residential curve, I light a cigarette with the other, letting up on the gas as I turn onto the main road without slowing down to look for other cars. Horns sound but I don't hear them. There is a sort of peace out on the open road, that I haven't felt in way too long.  
  
It's a straight road, and I let my brain shut down, seeing nothing but the yellow lines flashing by. Cops usually don't bother with a Special Forces colonel on the way to a top secret assignment. I know this from experience. And right now I don't feel like driving slow. Too many unpleasant thoughts I don't want catching up.  
  
  
  
I don't know if it's the pass I wave in his face, or the don't-fuck-with-me look in my eyes that does it, but the guard at the gate to Cheyenne Mountain waves me through immediately. I've been here before, but never as deep underground as I'm going today. I didn't even know the place went that deep. Evidently very hush-hush stuff here. Space aliens or something.  
  
No, that's in Nevada.  
  
"This is a security area . . ." The airman by the elevator trails off at the look on my face, but he doesn't step aside.  
  
"Colonel O'Neill." I turn around, and what do you know. It's one of the guys who came to the house, and from the look on his face he's very surprised to see me walking around, and expects me to go psycho on everyone in the vicinity any minute.  
  
Nice to know the scary look still works even when I'm out of uniform.  
  
"I'm here to report to General West."  
  
He hesitates. No, soldier, I'm not going to change, and I'm not going to cut my hair first. I want to know what's going on around here, and I want to know now. Evidently this is obvious without words. He gestures toward the elevator.  
  
"If you'll follow me, sir."  
  
It's a long elevator ride, and a noisy one. The car clanks as it descends, echoing strangely, and I wonder how deep underground we are.  
  
Not deep enough, apparently. We get on a second elevator, go down some more. Walls of solid concrete when we get off, bustling with people, in and out of uniform. Some young scientist-type with long hair and glasses almost walks into me, nose buried in a newspaper. An officer drags him out of the way just in time, but he doesn't seem to notice.  
  
"Come."  
  
The lieutenant opens the door, holds it for me to step inside. "Colonel O'Neill, General," he introduces me.  
  
General West. I've never met him but I've heard of him. Piercing eyes and a moustache without a hint of gray, and an impressive collage of ribbons on his chest. He doesn't get up, but waves me to take a seat. I stand, putting out my cigarette in the ashtray on his desk.  
  
"Dismissed, lieutenant." I straighten, parade rest, clasping my hands behind my back. "Colonel, please have a seat."  
  
I pull up a chair, moving it close enough for me to rest my elbows on the general's desk. He shuffles a few papers, pulls out a folder.  
  
"Colonel, first I want to say how sorry I am about the death of your son," he says. I wave a hand sharply. Perhaps it isn't good manners to cut off a general, but considering they all think I'm a few fries short of a happy meal around here, I think I can get away with disregarding some of the pleasantries. Besides, if this really is a suicide mission, they ought to forgive me.  
  
"All due respect, can we cut the crap, sir?" I say it quietly, but I don't flinch from his eyes. You're not sorry. You need someone for this mission who has experience in covert ops, with a high enough rank and a security clearance—and who doesn't mind a one-way ticket. Someone nobody will miss. I happen to conveniently fit that description. No, you're not sorry at all. "I'm gonna take a wild guess that you wouldn't call me back at a time like this unless there's a very good chance I won't be going home. And to answer your question—no, I don't have a problem with that. I'd just like to know why, how, and who I'll be taking out with me."  
  
He looks at me. I've seen the look before—sizing me up, trying to determine what I'm thinking, if I can be trusted, if I have what it takes. He's a tough character and no mistake, but then Frank told me so once. Impossible to tell what he's thinking. But right now I'm in no mood to give a shit what he thinks of me. Give me the damn mission, General, and let me finish this.  
  
"You've been out of the Air Force for a while," he says. I nod, not taking my eyes from his. "Before that your record is quite extraordinary." He says this with no particular surprise. "You've carried out covert missions in a lot of different countries, under various and difficult circumstances. You've earned several commendations. Your service in the Persian Gulf was particularly exemplary."  
  
"So I've been told." I came here to discuss the future, what little of it I have left, not the past. Particularly not past missions that failed spectacularly, regardless of how exemplary you think my personal conduct was. Get to the point, General.  
  
"I know this is a difficult time, and we would not ask this of you if it were not of vital importance to this nation, and perhaps to the world. I am going to ask this once, and I need your honest answer: considering how long you've been out of the military, and considering recent events, are you fit mentally and physically to lead a Special Forces team into potentially hostile territory?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
He gives me the Look again. "Very well, Colonel. It's good to have you with us." He sits back, folding his hands. "Now let me tell you a little bit about what NORAD has hidden in their basement . . ."  
  
  
  
Well, well. Who would have believed it? There was a time when I would have jumped up in the air whooping with joy to be given a space mission. Let alone traveling to a possibly habitable planet. Back when I was a hell of a lot younger, and a lot more innocent, if that word could ever be truthfully applied to me. Now General West is telling me that barring absolute proof that there is nothing on said planet that can threaten our nation or our world, I am to destroy forever all possibility of anyone traveling there again. And get myself blown into a million pieces by a Mark III nuclear bomb in the process. And I'm sitting here nodding, yes I can do that, sir.  
  
Have you ever been into space, Dad?  
  
No, Charlie. I've jumped out of airplanes, but I've never been into space.  
  
Will you ever go into space?  
  
Maybe someday, Charlie.  
  
Can I come with you?  
  
Maybe, if you're old enough. If you don't, I'll tell you all about it when I get back.  
  
Yeah, Charlie, I'll tell you all about it. After I'm dead, if I see you again, I'll tell you all about the wonders of space travel. If you and I end up in the same place. If there is a heaven, and if there's room in it for guys like me.  
  
Two very big ifs.  
  
"They've got a new linguist working on the translation, some whiz kid Langford brought in here a few weeks ago. This project has been going on for two years now, and I don't know if this Jackson will make a difference, but if he does . . . I'm going to need you to be ready."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
"You'll lead a recon team, already chosen. Captain Charles Kawalsky will be your second-in-command. Your orders remain top secret. Neither Kawalsky nor any of the others will know anything about the warhead. They will receive all the information they need in the official briefing. What has been said in this room is between us, and we will not speak of it again."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Dismissed, then, Colonel." He hands me the folder, and an envelope with something heavy inside it. "Keys to your quarters. Might as well make yourself comfortable. Depending on how long it takes Jackson to translate the artifact, you may be here a while."  
  
I push the chair back. "Thank you, sir." I don't bother saluting on the way out. I'm not in uniform anyway.  
  
  
  
My quarters are on the same level as General West's office, which is to say the very deepest bottom level of the base. A tiny, windowless box of cement, with a bunk and a flickering fluorescent light on the ceiling. As a privilege of rank I get a desk, and even a telephone.  
  
I hang up the uniform in the closet. There will be time tomorrow to see about a haircut. Right now what I need is something to eat. I haven't eaten in days. Or coffee will do, if it's strong enough. There is only one other person in the mess hall when I finally find it, and he seems to be a fellow believer in the caffeine-as-one-of-the-major-food-groups school of thought. As well as the haircuts-can-wait school, come to think of it. I don't really want company, though, so I eat quickly and take a mug of coffee back to my room with me.  
  
I flop down on the bed, opening the folder and scanning the report inside. Space aliens. Colonel Jack O'Neill, intergalactic space explorer, off to kick some alien's ass. It sounds like something from a bad science fiction movie. Charlie would've loved it.  
  
I roll over onto my back, rubbing a hand across my eyes. The room smells like damp cement. Unable to concentrate on the report, I reach out for a cigarette. Flick the lighter, watch the end glow. Toss the lighter back onto the desk, take a long drag. If I close my eyes, I could be back at some airbase in Riyadh, listening to Frank in the bunk above me—he always stole top bunk—groaning at my bad jokes as we tried to sleep before a mission.  
  
I sit up abruptly, not at all liking the direction my brain is taking, but not sure what else I can think about that I'd like any better. Pulling off my boots, I hurl them against the wall for no real reason, thinking that the dull thump they make against the concrete is somewhat less than satisfying. Oh well.  
  
Back then I knew why I was fighting. Which might sound screwy, since to some the idea of saving the planet from hostile aliens is a hell of a lot less morally ambiguous than a lot of the things I've done. But in Iraq, even after I got shot down, I knew I had to survive. I knew why I had to survive. I knew I had to go home, to see Sara and Charlie again.  
  
Honestly, I don't know why Sara stayed after I came home from Iraq. After four months of clinging to the image of her face to keep me going, when I finally got home I managed to shut her out of my life more effectively than any prison could. I don't know why she stayed. I didn't deserve for her to stay, not after that.  
  
I crush out the cigarette against the top of the desk, reaching for the phone. It buzzes in my ear, promising a miracle if I'll just move my fingers enough to punch a few buttons. For all I know she's gone already. What would I say, if I called? She knows I won't be coming home. She knows everything I could tell her, and she's tired of me trying to put into words what I've never been able to say. I've hurt her enough.  
  
Still my fingers dial, almost automatically. Now that I've left that house where Charlie died, I want to hear her voice. All last week I shut myself away so I wouldn't have to talk to her, but now I need to hear her.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
I close my eyes. The receiver is cold against my face. What can I say? This was a stupid idea.  
  
"Hello?" Her voice is uncertain. "Jack?"  
  
I press the heel of my hand against my eyes, hard enough to see stars. My lips move, but no sound comes out.  
  
"Jack, for God's sake . . ."  
  
My eyes are dry and stinging. I wish I could cry, alone here in a concrete box where no one will find me, but I have no tears left. Very gently I set the receiver down.  
  
"I love you." The whisper seems loud in the empty room. I throw myself down on the bed again, hearing the paper crinkle as I lie on top of the report from General West, burying my face in the pillow. After a moment the phone rings. I know I should get up and answer it, but I can't move. It keeps ringing, ten, eleven, twenty times. I lie there as if frozen. Finally it stops. 


	2. 

Langford's whiz kid made a difference, all right.  
  
I met him for the first time the next day, after spending a sleepless night studying West's report and drinking way too much coffee. Ten thousand year old Egyptian artifact, found beneath the Great Pyramid at Giza. Doorway to Heaven, the inscription said, supposedly. And the US military, in its infinite wisdom, had decided that meant space travel.  
  
There were three other people in the room when I made my way down at 0300, to get a look at this artifact myself. I wasn't going to be sleeping at all tonight, so I might as well see what it was the Air Force was going nuts over now.  
  
Okay, I admit it. I was curious. Shoot me.  
  
In front of the wall-to-wall bank of computers, bullet-proof glass separated us from the artifact itself. Two civilian technicians didn't even look up as I came in, gazing fixedly at their computers, oblivious to everything but the data flickering across the screens.  
  
An Air Force officer turned away from the window, looking at me briefly as I came to stand at the glass. I was still out of uniform, but the look he gave me said quite clearly that I didn't look like any civilian scientist he'd ever seen. He gave me a faint nod, but didn't say anything.  
  
I'd thought I was on the bottom floor of the mountain, but looking down I could see that the artifact was sitting on a level at least a story below us. A huge ring of stone, or some kind of gray metal I'd never seen before, and carvings around the edges that I recognized from drawings in the report. It looked more like a monument, some kind of ancient religious symbol, than a piece of modern technology that could transport a man into space.  
  
But then it was built by aliens, so who said their technology would look anything like ours?  
  
Or that we'd ever be able to figure out what it did, much less how to make it work?  
  
West seemed to think these scientists were pretty close to making it work, or he wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be here. I opened the report again, scanned the little pictographs and the fragmented translation beneath. A million years into the sky is Ra, sun god, sealed and buried . . . A million years? Ancient religious mumbo-jumbo, or were the Egyptians talking about light-years, as in an actual distance to an actual planet? Did the ancient Egyptians even have a concept of the speed of light, or how far light traveled in a year? I didn't know all that much about astrophysics, and next to nothing about ancient Egypt, but it seemed pretty far out.  
  
Of course, for all we knew, "sealed and buried" referred to the death of this Ra character, and this "doorway to Heaven" was actually the bomb that had blown him "a million years into the sky" in as many pieces.  
  
Yeah, I could see why the military was interested in keeping a close eye on Langford.  
  
The next morning I paid the scientists a little visit, informing them that this was no longer a private scientific venture, and that everything to do with the artifact was now classified.  
  
The scientists all stared at me. Jackson didn't react to the whole classified bit, and I wondered if it had gone right over his head. He seemed more shocked by the idea that the whatever-it-was was really ten thousand years old. Apparently that was significant somehow, although I had no idea how.  
  
The only other officer in the room, who turned out to be the guy I'd seen last night, and none other than the Captain Charles Kawalsky West had told me about, just saluted like he'd been expecting this. Which he probably was.  
  
Langford followed me out into the hallway.  
  
"Colonel O'Neill."  
  
Old, but elegant in her way, and obviously not intimidated by all the military brass running around what had been her private project. She'd been with the team that discovered the artifact, and I supposed she probably felt like she had a right to her say in what happened to it. Welcome to military intelligence, lady.  
  
Welcome to the real world.  
  
I turned, but didn't say anything. "I believe you owe me an explanation. I was told I had complete autonomy."  
  
Not by me, you weren't. Take it up with the General, I don't make the rules here. "Plans change," I said simply.  
  
She cocked her head at me. "Why are you here?" she asked. Suspicious. She thinks we're gonna take over her little project.  
  
Ya think?  
  
She was still looking at me, piercing curiosity. "Why did they bring you on this project?"  
  
Why is the Air Force here? Or why is Jack O'Neill here?  
  
If she'd managed to have a look at my record, she wouldn't see much. Graduated OTS, assigned to Special Operations. Deployed overseas two years, location classified. Missions classified. One month medical leave. Promoted to captain, received commendation. Deployed overseas three years, Middle Eastern theater. Missions classified. Two months medical leave. Received multiple commendations. Deployed one year, Nicaragua. Missions classified. Two months, Libya. Missions classified. Three years, Pakistan. All missions classified. Six weeks medical leave. Promoted to major. Received commendations.  
  
1991, deployed to Persian Gulf. Mission classified top secret. MIA four months. Medical leave three months. Promoted to colonel, awarded Air Force Cross.  
  
1993, retired from active duty.  
  
She wasn't stupid. Naïve, maybe, but not stupid. She could guess why I was here, as much from what my record didn't say as from the little that was there.  
  
Why do they bring you here?  
  
I thought of West's piercing glare, so much like hers but in a different way. Two very determined personalities. One with visions of exploration, scientific discovery, diplomacy with extra-terrestrials, or whatever the hell they thought they were doing here.  
  
The other with a Mark III nuclear bomb, and a suicidal colonel to set it off for him.  
  
One had the backing of the US government. The other was about to learn the hard way that all this was out of her hands.  
  
"I'm here in case you succeed."  
  
Welcome to the real world.  
  
  
  
I've decided I don't like West too much.  
  
Not that the US military really gives a shit if you like your CO. I learned that a long time ago. Maybe it's just I've been out of the Air Force too long. But he has this way of looking at you, like he's not seeing a person, but a wind-up tin soldier. Cheap. Expendable.  
  
Not that I have any intention of ever coming back alive from this mission. If I ever see Earth again after I step through that—what was it Jackson was calling it now? Star Gate?—I'll be very disappointed.  
  
But I'm not going on this mission alone. And not all the guys going with me are exactly suicidal. Some of them have families. Some of them want to come home. And as an officer in the United States Air Force, I have a duty to see that all the men under my command come back in one piece.  
  
A duty West doesn't seem to take nearly as seriously as I do.  
  
Well . . . I can do that . . .  
  
Are you sure?  
  
. . . Positive . . .  
  
Okay, granted the man had walked into the mountain less than two weeks ago and solved what the rest of them hadn't in two years. And granted it really didn't make too much of a difference in my life or death whether Jackson figured out how to align those little symbols to go back to Earth or not. But the military part of me couldn't help thinking this was a hell of a lot to risk on the assurances of one young civilian scientist. Whiz kid or no.  
  
You're on the team.  
  
Is it just me, or is it looking like West doesn't really care if any of us come back alive, as long as we manage to blow up that—Stargate, or whatever it's called?  
  
Not like there's anything I can do about it. Jackson says he can do it, it's easy. Nothing to it. And for all I know, it is easy for him. None of those scratchings and weird pictures on the stones or the 'gate make any sense to me, but Jackson takes one look at them and reads them like he's reading the Sunday paper.  
  
But I'm a soldier, and I don't like it when my men's lives depend on something I don't begin to understand.  
  
It's way past time to worry about that now. In about two minutes, we'll be going through that Stargate, off to kick the aliens' asses. Our mission, to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations . . . and blow them up. To boldly go where no man has gone before . . . and no one from Earth will ever go again.  
  
In a few days, maybe a week, an Air Force chaplain will knock at the door of our house, and tell Sara about my tragic death in a training accident. She'll never know what really happened to me. Likely the chaplain won't, either. But she'll know it wasn't a training accident. She doesn't know anything about the space aliens, if there are any, or the Stargate, or West and his nuclear bomb. But she knows I never intended to come back alive. The details don't really matter. They never did. She knows everything that's important.  
  
The warhead is packed carefully inside that little automated sled, just waiting for me to put it together and initiate the countdown. It's not very complicated. A tech showed me what parts go where, just last night. Never understanding what exactly it would be used for, of course. He knew better than to ask.  
  
That sled will go through first. It's already sitting on the ramp, engine humming. My men are waiting for me, all geared up for combat. If they're excited, afraid, happy, they don't show it. Officially, we're assigned to recon, our mission outlined vaguely as "exploration". I know better.  
  
Jackson looks a little lost dressed up in fatigues, kind of like a kid in a costume that's too big for him. I wonder if he knows anything at all about self-defense. Last thing I need on a recon mission is to baby-sit some civilian geek in a possibly hostile environment. But he's the only chance the rest of the guys have at getting home, so I will keep him in one piece, whatever it takes.  
  
Because I'm the only one here who signed on for a suicide mission. And Jack O'Neill does not leave anybody behind.  
  
  
  
"If anybody has anything to say, now's the time to say it."  
  
No one says anything. Professional, alert, they know their jobs. They know what our mission is.  
  
Or they think they do.  
  
I look at Kawalsky. A big guy, a veteran, experienced. Dark eyes calm, ready. He looks like nothing could rattle him. The kind of guy you want watching your six, if half his record is true. Not the sort to talk much, but he'll be there where it counts.  
  
He nods, but doesn't say anything.  
  
The way they jump when Jackson sneezes shows how keyed up they really are. Kawalsky's the only one who doesn't react, as Jackson blows his nose loudly, oblivious to the way the guys are looking at him. God help us if we have to hide from anything, and he sneezes like that.  
  
This would be the time, back before I retired, when I'd think back to Sara and Charlie, think about why I was fighting and who was waiting for me, before I left for a mission. This would be the moment when I'd picture their faces in my mind, as clear as I could make them—the ties that would pull me back from whatever storm I was about to enter, the love that would give me the strength to make it home.  
  
Goodbye, Sara, I think silently. The metal ramp starts to vibrate underneath our feet, and the big ring starts spinning. I've seen it do this before, but it still looks pretty amazing. One after another, the chevrons around the edges glow red.  
  
A few of the younger guys start when the—water? I know it's not water, but it sure as hell looks like it, and the technical explanation of what it was went straight over my head back at the briefing—shoots out from the circle of stone. Jackson just stares at it like it's the answer to the mysteries of the universe. No fear, just open-mouthed wonder. Absolutely no thought for the potential dangers that watery—stuff—might hold. Kinda like Charlie looked when I took him on base for the first time, staring at the uniforms, the airplanes, the ribbons. The guns.  
  
My hands clench very hard around the MP-5. Yeah, it's gonna be a challenge to keep this guy in one piece, if he reacts to alien hostiles that way. And I have this feeling he will.  
  
But I'm leaving at last, leaving this life and this world and everything that has ever protected me behind. This moment has been coming ever since that gun fired, and now there is nothing left, nothing to hold me back, nothing to tie me to this earth.  
  
Off we go, into the wild blue yonder . . .  
  
The sled is moving forward now, activated by a remote control. It disappears, leaving just a ripple behind. The men stand in two lines, waiting for me to go first.  
  
It looks like some kind of weird, demented swimming pool standing sideways. According to the computers, matter—including human beings—is actually disintegrated when you step through, and put back together again when you get to the other side. Again, the technical explanation went right over my head. As long as my men come out the other side in one piece, I don't care what it does.  
  
The circle has stopped spinning, and the only sound is the clank of my boots as I walk up the ramp. The entire complex seems to be holding its breath. Somewhere on the other side of the galaxy, the last shadow of hope is waiting for me, a silvery-gray cylinder waiting for me to push a few buttons, a few atoms ready to split apart and take a stone ring, half a planet, and one suicidal Air Force colonel with them.  
  
Light ripples across the surface of the water. I don't slow down as I take those last steps, staring hard at the light like it's a target I'm about to strafe, or some Iraqi prison guard I'd love to strangle slowly and painfully. The metal of the gun isn't cold anymore, as I lift it without thinking, teeth bared against the ultimate unknown. I don't even feel it when I finally pass through that ring. Whatever it was that looked like water, it didn't feel like it. Didn't feel like anything. I might be still on the ramp, except I can't feel anything under my feet anymore. Can't feel anything at all.  
  
Everything goes dark.  
  
Then I'm falling, and there are lights around me, swirling, blue and white, and damn but I have no fucking clue where I am or what's happening except that this is one hell of a deep hole I just jumped into and I'm not even close to the bottom. And are those lights actually there, am I in space or am I just seeing stars as I get ready to pass out, 'cause it feels like I'm pulling out of a high-speed bombing run without the g-suit, hell, without the damn plane, I'm just spinning around and around oh my God I'm fucking dizzy and I can't even breathe . . . shit there's no oxygen in space how come I'm not dead?  
  
My shoulder strikes rock, and old reflexes take over, rolling into darkness and onto my feet before my mind begins to process the fact that I'm out, I'm through, I'm on the other side. It's all dark but there's a light coming from somewhere, there it is, the stone circle again but there's no ramp, just a wavering light. I'm swaying, trying to look around for threats without falling over, but the world is jumping crazily back and forth every time I move my head. Yeah, I'm gonna fall over, please God don't let me pass out, and I try to fling a hand out to catch myself but both my hands seem to be frozen around my gun.  
  
I land on my knees, unwrapping one hand very slowly just in time to see Kawalsky fall forward out of the 'gate.  
  
"Colonel!" he yells. He's smarter than I was, and doesn't try to stand up right away, pushing himself up onto his knees and looking around wildly. There's frost in his hair, and on his face, sweat frozen around his eyes, and he's shivering violently. It takes me a few seconds to realize I am, too, even though it's warmer here than it was in the mountain.  
  
There is a dazed sort of look in his eyes, but we reach out for each other in the same instant, my hand locking onto his shoulder as he grabs my arm, and we stagger to our feet. We stand still, leaning on each other, holding on tight and breathing hard as the rest of the team are hurled at us one by one.  
  
Slowly, looking about as stunned as I feel, they stare around at each other and the apparently blank stone walls of whatever structure we're in, gasping for breath, and taking a while to stand up. I wait until I can breathe halfway normally again before I try to speak.  
  
"Everybody okay?" Heads turn, startled, at the sound of my voice, but those two words are all that's needed as training takes over, and they straighten, nods and yessirs, and the snap-click of guns getting ready to fire.  
  
My hand doesn't want to let go of Kawalsky's shoulder, but I pry my fingers open and find to my surprise that I can stand on my own now. He lets go of me, and I automatically check my gun, looking around again. I'm gonna have bruises where he was holding onto my arm.  
  
"Where's Jackson?" It's Ferretti, one of the younger guys. A quick head count, all soldiers accounted for, but no geek. I step forward, walking toward the 'gate, as if I can reach all the way back to Earth and pull him through, but there's no need. I stumble back as he hits the ground practically at my feet, lying where he falls.  
  
"Jackson!" I bend down, a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up. That same dazed, shell-shocked look, but he's never been in a fighter plane, never jumped with a parachute, and has nothing to compare this to. For a second I feel sorry for him. "It's all right, it's over." Brown comes up to stand next to me, and I tell him, "Stay with him."  
  
It occurs to me just then to look for the sled, and it's right where I expected to find it, along with the probe they sent yesterday. And the Stargate goes dark, the water disappearing like it was never there. I reach into my pocket, take out a flare, light it.  
  
"Three teams, let's go." 


	3. 3

TITLE: The End of Despair  
  
AUTHOR: Flora  
  
EMAIL: florastuart@yahoo.com  
  
DATE: March 15, 2002  
  
ARCHIVE: Will be archived at FanFiction.net,  
  
Stargatefan.com, Heliopolis, anyone else just ask  
  
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene  
  
SPOILERS: major for Stargate the Movie, minor for A  
  
Matter of Time, Solitudes  
  
RATING: R for language, canon death of minor  
  
character  
  
SUMMARY:  
  
"I won't be coming back.  
  
There is a liberation in that thought, not hope  
  
exactly. There is no hope left for me, not anymore.  
  
More like a shadow of hope . . . or at least the end  
  
of despair."  
  
At the beginning of the movie, Jack is offered a way  
  
to end his life with honor. What happens when he  
  
changes his mind?  
  
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the  
  
property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret  
  
Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written  
  
this story for entertainment purposes only and no  
  
money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright  
  
infringement is intended. The original characters,  
  
situations, and story are the property of the  
  
author. Not to be archived without permission of the  
  
author.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Here is part three...Jack discovers he's got a problem...  
  
Feedback eagerly accepted! :):)  
  
  
  
Much as I dislike West, I would've loved to be able to say that he was right and I was wrong. Really I would.  
  
But it didn't work out that way.  
  
When he said he needed to look around some more, I thought he meant he wanted to go sightseeing, explore the pyramid, look for more weird pictures.  
  
*I mean . . . this is a replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza.* That's great, Jackson. And you think I care because . . . ? *We really need to look around some more.*  
  
"Your job," I reminded him, pointed, "is to realign the Stargate. Can you do that or not?"  
  
I didn't come on this mission for scientific exploration, or any crap like that. I wanted to know that my team would be able to go home, and I wanted to know it now. Regardless of what we might find here, hostile aliens or threats to Earth, I wanted to know that this was all going to be as easy as Jackson had so glibly promised West.  
  
At first it looked like he was nodding, looking at me like I was some idiot standing in the way of scientific progress just because I could.  
  
"I . . . I can't."  
  
I can do that . . .  
  
Are you sure?  
  
Positive. Yeah. Right. Way to go, General.  
  
He might not be used to military discipline, but he's on my team now under my command, and that means he will do as I damn well tell him. My voice chilled to absolute zero, a tone that would have made the worst of my old drill sergeants proud. "You can't, or you won't?"  
  
I was right, the guy had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever. He had no fucking clue how close I was to punching his lights out, or how many of his bones I could break with a few well-placed blows if he wasn't very careful. He just squinted at me, like I was the one being unreasonable here.  
  
"I can decipher the symbols on the Stargate, but I need an order of alignment."  
  
There were footsteps behind me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Kawalsky coming to stand beside me, a wary look on his face. A look that said he'd better not have heard what he thought he'd just heard.  
  
I'm with you, pal.  
  
"Now those coordinates were on tablets back on Earth, and there must be something like that here. I just . . . need to find it."  
  
I stood there, nodding, uh-huh, you're kidding right? And he spread his hands with this nervous little laugh, like he's confessing some kind of minor screw-up, while I'm giving him a look anyone with half an ounce of sense would recognize as you've-got-five-seconds-to-tell-me-you're-not- serious-or-so-help-me-I'll-knock-you-senseless.  
  
Multiple PhD's the man might have, but common sense had never crossed that brilliant mind.  
  
"Find it?" Kawalsky's voice was deceptively calm. "What do you mean, *find* it? You didn't say anything about finding anything."  
  
"Well, I assumed it would be here . . ." He trailed off, seeing I wasn't buying this.  
  
"You *assumed*?" I couldn't believe I was still standing there, calmly, inches away from him, and I hadn't hit him yet. How exactly did I let myself get talked into taking a civilian on this team? Much less trusting him with the lives of all my men? Whatever Jackson had said, whatever he'd assumed, he wasn't military, wasn't trained to the same standards I was, and I'd known that when I'd taken him on the team. And I'd still assumed he knew what he was talking about when he'd said he could get the team home.  
  
Stupid, *stupid* . . . the voice of my old drill sergeant came back to me. You never, EVER *assume* anything, when it comes to a mission. Do you have any *idea* how many men have *died* because of dumbass mistakes like you just made? *Do you, soldier??*  
  
"You're a lyin' son of a bitch!" Kawalsky's shout cut across the memories, so calm a minute ago, now rigid, sparking fury as he shoved Jackson hard. The guy fell over, sitting on the sand blinking up at us like he had no idea what Kawalsky was so worked up about. "You didn't say a *word* about *finding* anything!"  
  
As tempting as it was, if we beat the crap out of Jackson now we'd never get back. And the rest of the guys were starting to drift in this direction, and from the look on Ferretti's face it was clear they'd overheard, and they'd all be *more* than willing to give Kawalsky a hand. Time for me to take charge. Salvage the situation, or whatever there was left of it to salvage.  
  
I moved deliberately between Kawalsky and Jackson, who was still sitting on the ground looking hurt. Kawalsky was beyond furious, and while I could sympathize I needed him to cool off and think rationally, or I was never gonna get the rest of them out of here. The younger guys were all gathering behind him, anger masking their very real fear, and I needed my 2IC to help me keep order and discipline, or we were all dead.  
  
"Kawalsky." I met his livid glare with one of my own, no less angry but cold. Controlled. We locked stares for interminable seconds. "Set up a camp down here, organize our supplies."  
  
"Sir--" He stopped at the look I gave him, but he didn't back down.  
  
"You've got your orders." I hear you, but we don't have time for this right now. I'm pissed, you're pissed, we're all pissed, but killing Jackson's not gonna help us, and the sooner we all realize that the sooner we can figure out a way to get the hell out of here. I need you with me. I need you to be part of the solution, soldier, not part of the problem.  
  
He stared at me for a while, and I watched as the professional mask gradually came back, slid into place, but now it was just that, a mask. He didn't look at Jackson, scrambling to his feet. Turning, he walked stiffly back toward the pyramid, snapping orders at the others, leaving me to deal with our errant scientist.  
  
Kawalsky might never know it, but his reaction was the only thing that kept me from doing something very violent and very unpleasant to Dr. Daniel Jackson right then. I didn't feel like dealing with him right now. So I just watched as he started walking around the pyramid, absolutely fascinated and totally in his own little world. I should probably have assigned one of the guys to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn't run into any nasty locals while he wasn't watching where he was going, but right now I figured he was in more danger from my men than anything else we'd seen so far. Hopefully he'd have the sense to stick near base camp and not get lost in the desert. Hopefully.  
  
With a silent prayer to whatever God watches over drunks, fools, and archaeologists, I turned around and walked slowly back into the pyramid. We hadn't seen any signs of hostiles yet, but that bomb took a couple minutes to set up, and if I waited till I found an enemy I might not have that much time.  
  
It was the kind of switch you would never notice if you didn't know where to look. A touch, and I could lift up the lid to the secret compartment in the sled, that section of its innards the rest of them probably assumed was part of the engine.  
  
All set up, it wouldn't even stand as high as my waist. Such a small bomb, to hold so much power. To blow this pyramid sky-high, and melt the Stargate down so it could never be used again. To destroy half a world, and whatever fascinating cultural artifacts Jackson was so excited about.  
  
To take away the pain, and despair, Charlie's eyes wide and his blood soaking the carpet, Sara's tears and her silence. To take away the memories.  
  
It's not hard to put together. I'd done it before, assembled a tactical nuclear warhead from its component parts, pushing this piece in, pulling this out, pressing a few buttons, watching lights blink and readouts scroll across the little screen in my hand. I'd practiced over and over, in that deserted briefing room next door to West's office, until I could put this thing together and take it apart faster than I could reassemble my M-16 in basic training.  
  
Only thing I hadn't done yet was lift that red cover, and push the switch.  
  
Part of me watched my hands move, remembering. Remembering a time when I would've looked at a man like myself, uncomprehending, seeing only such a waste of life and hope. What kind of man could do such a thing, could put together a nuclear bomb so calmly my hands don't even shake as I construct my own death? What kind of man could flip that switch without thinking twice or looking back, leaving everything behind, throwing everything away? I'd seen men like this before--you meet a fair number of psychos in Special Ops, if you stay in long enough--but they'd stayed apart from the rest of us, and they hadn't stayed long. Guys who went looking for death in Special Ops usually found it pretty quick, and I'd watched them go, sad but never quite understanding.  
  
I wasn't throwing everything away, not now. I'd already done that, many times over. I didn't have anything left to throw away, nothing to lose by flipping that little switch. Just a few weeks ago I'd been building a life, taking care of a family, trying to make up for all the years I'd been overseas. I'd thought I was done with blood and guns and war.  
  
Such a little thing, such a little strength needed to pull the trigger of a gun. To push the arming switch of a bomb. The lightest touch, and nothing was the same.  
  
But there was a light coming from the entrance, a flashlight and footsteps, and I quickly let the lid shut again.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Kawalsky. If he was still mad I couldn't tell. I lowered my hand behind the sled, casual, hiding a small piece of electronics that my 2IC might or might not be able to identify as part of a bomb.  
  
"Base camp's up, sir," he said. I didn't say anything, just nodded, and for a minute we looked at each other. He was giving me a curious look, eyebrows up--the same look he'd given me half an hour ago when I'd told him he'd be going back through the Stargate within the hour.  
  
You're coming with us, aren't you, Colonel?  
  
I hadn't answered him. What would I have said? No, Kawalsky, I'm not going back to Earth. I'm staying behind on Planet X and blowing up this pyramid with that little nuclear warhead I brought with me. Oh dear, did I forget to tell you about that one?  
  
I'd hoped he wouldn't think anything of it, that he'd think I hadn't heard him. But from the look on his face he knew I'd heard him, and he knew I'd deliberately chosen not to answer.  
  
But unlike Jackson, Kawalsky seemed to value his own skin, and didn't push it. He rested one hand on the sled, with a searching look that told me in no uncertain terms I wasn't hiding anything from him. Then he turned and walked outside without a word.  
  
  
  
I felt bad as I watched him go, but also relieved that he'd decided to let it lie. Kawalsky was a soldier, and he wasn't about to bother his CO with unwelcome personal questions, even if he might suspect I had a death wish. Not yet. He trusted me to put the safety of the team ahead of my own life or death, whichever I was after, and that was enough for him, for now. Thank God for military discipline.  
  
I supposed I should be glad he'd calmed down enough to wonder about my strange behavior, if that meant he'd forgotten how much he'd wanted to strangle Jackson half an hour ago. I needed him to keep the team together, needed his steady presence to help me remind the younger guys that they were still soldiers, we'd been trained for missions that were supposed to be impossible, and that they were gonna make it home. It was just gonna take a little longer, that was all.  
  
  
  
Our archaeologist was gone when I got back.  
  
Dammit, this was *not* the way these things were supposed to work! I fumed silently. Civilian consultants do *not* wander away from base camp in a hostile environment, no matter what they're looking for or how important it might be. What would have been so hard about telling Kawalsky or Ferretti what he'd found? Then one of the guys could have told me, and we'd have a nice reasonable discussion about the strategic merits of following those tracks, and if and how we should split the team up to investigate. Instead I had a team member, the most important and least able to defend himself, off God knew where, in possibly hostile territory that wasn't as deserted as we'd originally thought.  
  
Shit.  
  
To be perfectly fair, he *had* managed to find the signs of civilization we'd been looking for, if that tent city down there wasn't a mirage. And while that thing licking his face didn't look like it was about to have him for lunch, he could very easily have been killed if it had dragged him at that kind of pace over rougher terrain. I wonder if he even realized that.  
  
Well, there are people down there. And they've seen us.  
  
This kid might be thirteen, fourteen, and I can't hear from here but he's pointing at us, saying something. The way he's dressed reminds me of tribesmen in Afghanistan in the '70's, or Iran in the '80's. Or . . .  
  
*Don't* go there.  
  
More people are starting to gather, watching us. I can't see any weapons, but that doesn't mean they're not there. Or that alien weapons would look anything like ours. But these people look human . . .  
  
Hell. We're not gonna get anywhere if we sit up here all day. Time to rock'n'roll. 


	4. 4

TITLE: The End of Despair  
  
AUTHOR: Flora  
  
EMAIL: florastuart@yahoo.com, stt121us@yahoo.com  
  
DATE: March 15, 2002  
  
ARCHIVE: Will be archived at FanFiction.net,  
Stargatefan.com, Heliopolis, anyone else just ask  
  
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene  
  
SPOILERS: Stargate the Movie, A Matter of Time, Solitudes  
  
RATING: R for language, canon death of minor  
character  
  
SUMMARY:   
  
"I won't be coming back.  
  
There is a liberation in that thought, not hope  
exactly. There is no hope left for me, not anymore.  
More like a shadow of hope . . . or at least the end  
of despair."  
  
At the beginning of the movie, Jack is offered a way  
to end his life with honor. What happens when he  
changes his mind?  
  
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the  
property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret  
Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written  
this story for entertainment purposes only and no  
money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright  
infringement is intended. The original characters,  
situations, and story are the property of the  
author. Not to be archived without permission of the  
author.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Part Four: of chickens, guns, and cigarette lighters. Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Constructive criticism eagerly accepted! J  
  
  
"All right, Jackson, you're on."  
  
He looked at me, blinked. "Me?"  
  
Yeah. You. About time you showed us you're good for *something*, considering you can't make the Stargate work like you said you could. "You're the linguist. Try to talk to 'em."  
  
He seemed to collect himself, gather his thoughts back from whatever faraway land they were currently wandering in, and took a step forward. I watched the natives, looking for any sign that they didn't like us, or were armed. Far as I could tell, they were digging, mining something, scattered piles of grayish rock standing out against the pale sand. So far they didn't seem hostile . . .  
  
"Hi," Jackson started uncertainly, raising a hand and taking a few more steps toward one of the taller natives, a big, dark guy who just stared at him with no sign of comprehension.  
  
*I* could've said *that*, commented the sarcastic voice in the back of my head.  
  
Apparently the natives were a lot more impressed than I was. The big guy muttered something unintelligible-then yelled it out across the crowd that was gathering, still just as unintelligible, but suddenly they were dropping to the ground, falling to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the sand in a way that was uncomfortably similar to the way I remembered the Iraqis kneeling to pray.   
  
Of course, it wasn't the same. This wasn't the Middle East, and unless I was going completely nuts these people couldn't be Muslims, and even if they were there was no way they'd be praying to Jackson. But it struck me all the same, uncanny and not at all welcome, so that for a minute I was seeing another group of worshippers on another world six years ago, and I could almost hear the call of the muezzin wavering in the heat. A high, eerie sound, one I always thought sounded more like a wail of despair than anything inspiring religious awe.   
  
But every time they heard it they dropped just like these people were now, foreheads pressed to the ground, no matter what they were doing-eating, talking, saluting officers, kicking the shit out of me-they'd stop. For a little while. Five times a day, seven days a week, for four months. I had to shake my head to clear the sound from my mind, even though the only sound here and now was the wind.   
  
Shove it, O'Neill, I ordered. Pull yourself together. No similarities here at all. I mean, come on, they're bowing to *Jackson*. How many Iraqis you know who'd be caught dead bowing to a guy like him?  
  
I leaned toward him, without taking my eyes off the worshippers. "What the hell did you say to him?"  
  
There's the clueless look again. "Nothing," he said.  
  
Right. Okay, our linguist isn't going to be much help here. Maybe common sense will succeed where specialized knowledge failed. I lowered my gun, walking over to one of the kneeling natives.  
  
He looked up at my footsteps, then lowered his head again, obviously scared. And I saw he was the same kid I'd seen through the binoculars, the kid who'd seen us first. I stood there, and after a minute he looked up again, very slowly.   
  
And suddenly he wasn't an alien anymore, or a desert tribesman with an AK, or an Iraqi prison guard. I looked at him again and I wasn't seeing the dark hair, dark skin and eyes I remembered from hell in the Middle East. He was just a kid, maybe fourteen, and I was the alien. He was scared, and curious at the same time. Hell, I'd seen the same look in Charlie's eyes.  
  
"Hey." I bent down, held his eyes, holding my hand out, palm open, in a universal gesture of peace and friendship. "Hey. It's okay," I told him, not really expecting him to understand me, but hoping the tone would be enough to reassure him I wasn't about to shoot him. He didn't seem convinced, just stared at my hand like he'd never seen anything like it. "It's okay, see?" I reached out, slowly clasped his hand, nodding. "It's okay."  
  
We shook hands slowly like that, staring at each other, for a few seconds. Then without warning he tore his hand away with a cry, and took off running back toward the mine, shouting.   
  
Shit. I stepped back, holding up my gun again, watching as he disappeared over a dune. Now is *not* the time, O'Neill. He's an unknown, who obviously doesn't trust you, and who's just run off presumably to get his friends. Who probably won't trust you any more than he does, and who may or may not be less scared and better armed.   
  
Fortunately for all of us, the reinforcements turned out to be another one of those big animals, this one with some kind of carriage on top and a dignified old man in a funny headdress. Leader around here?  
  
The worshippers all rose when he dismounted and came to greet Jackson, staying respectfully silent. He bowed and made some kind of speech which was undoubtedly very nice, but I couldn't understand a word and from the bemused expression on his face I guessed Jackson couldn't either.   
  
If talking to them doesn't work, try chocolate? Hell, the local hairy animals seemed to like it . . .   
  
I had no idea what "bunny way" meant, but it looked like the guy was happy so I wasn't going to complain. He gestured back toward the dunes behind him, looking at Jackson expectantly.  
  
"He's inviting us to go with him," Jackson said.  
  
Kawalsky's expression said he didn't exactly have absolute faith in Jackson's judgment. "How can you be so sure?"  
  
"Because he's . . ." Jackson motioned with his arms just like the native guy had done, like it should be obvious. ". . . inviting us to go with him." A crowd was gathering now, murmurs spreading, but they didn't look hostile. Yet. I squinted in the direction the leader had pointed, but I couldn't see anything but sand and more sand. Jackson turned to me. "We were looking for signs of civilization, and obviously we've found it." He looked around at each of us, exasperated. "If you want me to get us home, this is our best shot."  
  
Okay, he's got my attention.  
  
"Colonel, he's right," Brown said. Kneeling on the ground, he was examining a pile of gray rocks. "This mineral they're mining-it's the same material as the Stargate."  
  
A mineral not found on Earth . . . I looked at Jackson. So far he hadn't done anything on this trip I couldn't do, and I wasn't nearly as confident about getting the team home as he was. But we weren't going to get anywhere standing around here, and if there was even a chance I'd be able to send my men home safely, I'd take it.  
  
"Kawalsky." I didn't turn, watched the horizon ahead. Coordinates marked on tablets, Jackson had said. He'd assumed they were here somewhere. The rest of us could only pray he knew what he was talking about. "Radio base camp, tell them to keep that area secured until we get back."  
  
  
  
As an officer in the United States Air Force, I'd endured more than one diplomatic banquet over the years. But this one had to be the strangest of any ever inflicted on me.  
  
And I'm not just talking about the aliens.  
  
We walked for several hours, all the natives crowding around us, some of them reaching out to touch us, feeling the fabric of our uniforms and oohing and ahhing in soft voices. We came to what looked like nothing so much as the old Indian villages of the Southwest I'd seen in pictures, sand and mud buildings stacked on top of one another, and gates made of big logs standing open as we walked into a long hall hung with beads and animal skins. I looked around, trying to see if there was anything around here that might be Jackson's tablets, but I didn't see anything I recognized, and I probably wouldn't recognize what he needed if I saw it. That was his job.  
  
So I let him watch for his "order of alignment", and went back to my own assignment. Which was assessing possible threats to Earth. Deciding if there was anything on this planet that would justify blowing up the Stargate. From what West had said, the Air Force didn't like the idea of the Stargate at all, and everybody at the Pentagon would much rather it be destroyed if there was the smallest hint of a threat to Earth. Better to be safe than sorry, he'd said. But the decision, in the end, would come down to me.   
  
Of course, if I overreacted, there was no way I'd get accused of being paranoid, since I'd be dead anyway . . .  
  
So far these people didn't seem to have much advanced technology. No weapons I'd seen, only transportation is by whatever those big smelly animals are that dragged Jackson here. Although I think you're *supposed* to ride on the back, not hang onto the harness and let it drag you. Though I could be wrong. Cultural differences and all that.  
  
But then they were mining the same mineral that the Stargate was made of. Lots of it, too. A mineral used to make a piece of technology *way* more advanced than anything on Earth. There was obviously more to this culture than we'd seen so far, and much as I hated to admit it, Jackson was right. We needed to know more about these people.  
  
"The eye of Ra." He was pointing at a big gold disc hanging from the ceiling, with a symbol like an eye carved in it. The natives were all bowing in its direction. "It's the Egyptian sun god," he explained. "They think he sent us here." His voice was puzzled, wondering. And suddenly I remembered where I saw that particular symbol before.  
  
I reached out and held up the gold pendant he was wearing, the one Catherine Langford had worn when I first met her. "Yeah." And it all becomes clear. "Wonder what could've given them that idea."  
  
A million years into the sky is Ra, sun god, sealed and buried for all time . . .  
  
These people must have come from Earth, a long, long time ago. Which would explain why they'd copied the religion of ancient Egypt . . . about which I knew absolutely nothing, but then that was what Jackson was here for . . .  
  
My radio was crackling, and I saw Brown was speaking into his. "Sir, I can't make this out . . ."  
  
There was another squeal of static, what might have been a voice shouting, but I couldn't make out any words. It sounded like trouble.  
  
"Ferretti, say again." I said it calmly, like if I could will the radio to be calm it might give me a clear transmission. No luck. Shit. I knew it was a bad idea to split up the team.  
  
But there was no time to think about that now. There was a horn blowing somewhere, and they were all moving, herding us along with them, and the giant wooden doors to the compound were swinging shut.   
  
And so we'd ended up sitting on the floor in a rough circle, as the natives brought out various dishes I wasn't sure I wanted to identify. Once it was obvious we weren't supposed to be the main course at this banquet or anything, I'd let myself relax, sort of. If Ferretti had any sense, he would've headed back for the pyramid before the sandstorm hit base camp. It wasn't that far.   
  
But then, sandstorms can come on quickly, with little or no warning, from what I remembered from Iraq. And as far as I knew, Ferretti hadn't served in a desert before . . .  
  
Give it a rest, O'Neill, I told myself. If you and Jackson don't find those tablets, you can't do anything for any of the team. Focus, dammit, focus on finding a way out of here.  
  
Jackson was sitting there with a bemused look on his face, smiling and nodding at everybody, munching on something that looked like bread. Kawalsky and Brown sat stiffly, uncertain.  
  
"Hey, Jackson." He looked over at Kawalsky. "I don't think we should eat any food here."  
  
Jackson went right on munching. "I don't know, they might consider that an insult."  
  
The place was large and open, with torches blazing from brackets in the walls. Over our heads, there were what looked like walkways made of logs, and curtains hanging from them. I wondered where they'd gotten the wood from. I hadn't seen any trees on this planet so far.  
  
Somebody was bringing another dish over, setting it down between the old guy and Jackson and lifting the cloth to reveal . . . what looked like some kind of lizard, steam rising from the middle where it had been nearly cut in half.   
  
Kawalsky's eyebrows went up as the old guy motioned to the platter. "Well, we don't want to offend them, now do we, Daniel?"  
  
Jackson looked at him, then shrugged as he reached for the lizard, and pulled off a piece. Kawalsky and Brown were both watching with great interest as he chewed thoughtfully.  
  
"Tastes like chicken," he said with a grin, looking around at us. "It's good." He turned to the old guy, who was watching expectantly. Jackson tapped a finger against his lips, then started flapping his arms and making chicken noises.   
  
Okay. I'd been expected to do things I thought were pretty ridiculous at diplomatic events before, but this had to be the limit. These people had no idea what a chicken was, and it was obvious Jackson's attempt to-communicate?-wasn't accomplishing much, besides making the chief think we were not quite right in the head. Right now he was just nodding with an amused expression, not quite certain how to respond, but humoring this strange messenger from his god.  
  
That was enough of that, I decided. Time to decide if there was any point in being here at all. "Jackson."  
  
He looked up, and some of the impatience must have showed on my face, 'cause he stopped smiling.   
  
"You said that was an Egyptian symbol." I jerked my head in the direction of the gold disk.  
  
"Yes," he nodded. "The eye of Ra."  
  
"So would it make sense that . . . if they know one Egyptian symbol . . ."  
  
I watched as it clicked, and Jackson nodded slowly. "Yes." He got up. "Yes." Walking over to the chief, he knelt down in front of him and held out the pendant. It was about time, I thought. Now, if this guy actually knows Egyptian writing-but then how come he doesn't speak the language? I thought the mission reports said Jackson spoke ancient Egyptian-why anyone would spend so much time studying a language that had been dead even longer than Latin was beyond me, but that was a different story-but maybe this was a different dialect, and they used the same symbols. Or maybe they at least recognized enough of the symbols for Jackson to communicate what we needed to know. I didn't know anything about ancient languages, but as long as it got us to those tablets he needed, I wasn't gonna ask questions.  
  
The old guy bowed and made some kind of sign with his hands as Jackson held out the pendant. Jackson waved his hands, then began to draw the same symbol in the sand at his feet.   
  
Apparently this wasn't a good idea. The old guy looked agitated, rubbing out the lines with his foot, then jumping up and waving his arms, shouting. Jackson stood up, backed off, and the chief said something to the girl next to him and she ran out of the room.  
  
Jackson looked at me. "It seems like writing is forbidden to them." He looked confused, curious, as he started back toward us.  
  
He never made it. Halfway across the room, a group of old women converged on him, pulling at his arms and herding him toward the end of the hall. "They want me to go with them!" Ya think? Kawalsky was on his feet, and I was torn between not wanting be separated, and trying to be diplomatic. If it had been a bunch of armed men taking him away, that would've been different. But this . . . I wondered if there was a tactful way to say no, without speaking the language . . . "Should I stay?" he shouted, looking back over his shoulder at me. He didn't look scared, but then he probably wouldn't be scared even if they were armed and dangerous-looking. The idea that he might be in danger didn't seem to have occurred to him. "I'll go with them! I'll be fine . . ." His voice trailed off.   
  
I motioned to Kawalsky to sit down. If Jackson wasn't back soon, we'd go looking for him, but for right now we'd already pissed off our hosts enough. I didn't like the situation, but I couldn't really think of an alternative. How much of a threat could a bunch of unarmed old women be? I had other things to worry about now.  
  
It seems like writing is forbidden to them.  
  
Yeah, I'd noticed that. The question was, forbidden by who? And why? And what happened to people who broke that rule?  
  
It obviously wasn't the chief's rule, even though he seemed to be in charge of this particular compound. He hadn't looked angry, he'd looked-scared. Some kind of religious rule? Or was there another, higher leader on this planet? Someone who used the mineral these people mined? There were no traces of it here, but they were mining lots of it, and it had to go somewhere. Someone who didn't want these people to be educated. To keep them from wondering if they might be better off if they didn't have to work in the mines? To keep them from questioning his authority? I didn't like this situation. I didn't like it at all. If there was another, higher authority here, who'd found a reason to keep his people illiterate by force if necessary, he wasn't going to like strangers coming from another world, spreading new and maybe dangerous ideas.   
  
We could be in deep shit here.  
  
We had no idea what the political situation was on this planet, or anything at all about the natives except what we'd seen here. And we'd already broken one rule, and who knew what others we might run into? It would be too much to hope that this section of this planet was ruled by a humane and enlightened democracy, or that they would see my team as anything but alien invaders. The safest option for any ruler, most likely, would be to kill us all so we couldn't incite rebellion or bring our fellow aliens to threaten them.  
  
We needed to find out what kind of society existed on this planet outside of this compound. Who they were, how they were governed, and what kind of technology they had. What they used the Stargate mineral for. And how they were likely to respond to the knowledge that another world existed on the other side of the Stargate.  
  
I just might have found my reason to blow the warhead.  
  
  
  
Jackson's been gone nearly two hours, now.  
  
Brown said he saw him heading out the back of the hall with some girl, and I'm really hoping they're looking for the Stargate coordinates. 'Cause if not, we're going to have to have a serious discussion about priorities, here.  
  
Not that Jackson really seems like the type to sneak off with a girl he barely knows and can't even communicate with for-other activities. And to be perfectly honest, I don't see him having much success if he tried. Although these people think he's a god . . .   
  
When the feast was over, the chief led Brown and Kawalsky and me to a room off the main hall, with lots of bowing and hand gestures I didn't understand. Apparently we were supposed to sleep here tonight.   
  
Not much by way of beds, but there were stone ledges along the walls to sit on, and folded blankets in a corner. Kawalsky and Brown were cleaning their weapons and checking their gear. I was bored, and worried, and at the moment I had nothing to do. Nothing to do but watch, and wait for Jackson to find whatever it was he was looking for.  
  
I'll admit the man hadn't inspired me with a hell of a lot of confidence so far.  
  
I sat down, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. When the flame appeared, there was a soft exclamation from the doorway, and I looked up to see that kid again. The one I'd scared before, when I tried to say hello. He was standing in the doorway, startled, probably wondering if now wasn't a good time to get the hell out of here.   
  
"It's okay, it's just a lighter." He couldn't understand me, and in a place like this a shiny piece of metal that could catch fire like that probably looked like magic. I flipped it open, lit it, then shut it again. See? It's harmless.  
  
He hesitated, then came a few steps into the room, watching me warily, but with a burning curiosity that was only too familiar. For some reason I couldn't explain, I tossed the lighter at him. He caught it, holding it up to his face with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.  
  
Yeah, amazing, isn't it? He looked at me.  
  
"Go on," I said, miming flipping it open and lighting it. He stared at me, then looked at the lighter again, copying the motion very carefully. He jerked it away from his face when the flame ignited, staring at it, mesmerized. He said something, breathed one word, reverently.  
  
"Yeah, it's pretty fabulous." I looked away, trying not to think how much the kid looked like Charlie. Give him lighter hair, blue eyes, make him a few years younger . . . that wide-eyed look was one that used to touch something deep inside me, something clean and innocent, the part of me that could share in my son's wonder at the world around us. A part of me that was all but dead, buried along with my family and my home and all the hope I'd ever had.  
  
The kid wasn't Charlie, I reminded myself, as he reached out slowly for my pack of cigarettes. When I didn't move to stop him, he pulled one out of the box and studied it. Of course not. There was no way in hell I'd've sat here and taught my son how to smoke, even if he was as old as this kid. Sara would've had my head, if I'd even thought about it. I leaned back and shook the ash off my cigarette, the flicker of amusement dying quickly as the kid copied the motion exactly. Damn. Last thing I needed, this kid following me around, reminding me of everything I'd lost. I took a long drag, blew out the smoke slowly, couldn't help turning my head to watch him.   
  
He brought the end close to the flame with an expression of infinite concentration. Images flashed in my mind, memories of happier times. Charlie learning to tie his shoes, his face focused just like this kid's was now. Standing with his feet apart, holding the bat over his shoulder, watching my arm as I drew back to throw the ball. The way his face split in that grin when I'd come home unexpected, unannounced, that Christmas Eve. Another time. Another life, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.  
  
The kid leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, glancing at me with a faint smile, lounging artistically in the doorway. I couldn't bring myself to smile back.  
  
He inhaled slowly, with that same intense concentration. Seconds passed, then he threw the cigarette on the ground, coughing, before rounding on me with an expression that needed no translation.  
  
I'm guessing that's the local version of "Are you fucking nuts?!" I shook my head, crushing mine out and dropping it on the floor. "Yeah, you're right," I agreed. "It's pretty stupid."  
  
There, I thought, now you probably just killed diplomatic relations. Nice move, O'Neill. The kid was holding out the lighter now.   
  
I looked at it for a second. It's pretty stupid, I said again silently. Wasn't like I was going to be alive much longer to use the damn thing. I shook my head.  
  
"Nah, keep it," I said. "It's yours."  
  
He stared at me. I waved his hand away, and the confused look disappeared as his face lit up in this big grin. Like a little kid at Christmas. I sighed, turning away so he wouldn't see the look in my eyes.  
  
I saw him come closer out of the corner of my eye, heard him murmur at something else amazing he'd found in the pile of my stuff lying next to me. Probably enough in my field pack to keep the kid amused for days-  
  
"No!"  
  
He jumped back a few feet, eyes wide and scared as I grabbed the MP-5 out of his hands. Dammit, he should be scared. It's not a *fucking* toy! He froze in the doorway for only a second, then turned and bolted like a deer.   
  
"Dangerous!" Two steps brought me to the doorway, holding the gun over my head and shouting after him.   
  
He didn't stop, didn't turn, wouldn't understand. Hell, Charlie spoke English and he didn't . . .   
  
Kawalsky and Brown were looking at me, startled, and I ignored them. Jesus *Christ*. I sat down heavily, black metal suddenly cold as I laid the gun down next to me. Twenty years in the military, and the damn thing was practically an extension of my arm. So easy, it was so easy to forget how I'd been fascinated by that shape when I was younger, years before I'd ever seen what one could do to a human body. To this kid, my machine gun was like the damn lighter-oooh, look, here's a new toy, let's see what this one does! God . . .  
  
I covered my eyes with one hand, shaking my head slowly, not caring for once what the other guys were thinking. Shit. Last thing I needed . . . How far away was this place from base camp and the Stargate? Damn, *there's* a thought I don't need right now. An MP-5 would look a lot like a cigarette lighter compared to what I'd got hidden in the basement of that pyramid. How far would the blast reach, when I set that thing off? I wasn't an expert on nukes, but I couldn't pretend a Mark III would just collapse the pyramid and leave the rest of the planet untouched. Here I was yelling at the kid for touching my gun, and all the while I was getting ready to blow a tactical nuclear warhead less than a few hours walk from here.   
  
For some reason it was all so damn simple, sitting in West's office less than a week ago. Flick the little red switch, and everything will be over. No light at the end of the tunnel, not for me, but at least the tunnel had a fucking end at last. When did it all get so damn complicated? 


End file.
